


The Chin-Mae Antidote

by TheBootleBumtrinket



Category: Lucifer Box - Mark Gatiss
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBootleBumtrinket/pseuds/TheBootleBumtrinket
Summary: Lucifer is home from Naples and his adventure with the V.C. Taking some time, painting, until a new portrait commission brings trouble his way and a death sends him on a personal mission of revenge.





	1. Pass The Parcel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer is home from Naples and his adventure with the V.C. Taking some time, painting, until a new portrait commission brings trouble his way and a death sends him on a personal mission of revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think any of my depictions (neither the violent depictions nor the 'romantic' ones) are graphic, nor that any deaths could be considered as those of 'major' characters, but if you disagree please let me know. Thanks.

I had been keeping a low profile since the excitement of Naples, feeling a tad shell shocked, truth be told. I kept to number nine, sleeping as if dead for half the day, eating only at the club and focusing on my painting. I shied away from all company, preferring my own {which is always excellent, naturally). I had told the ‘powers that be’ that I was taking some time off from espionage, and that for all I cared, King and country could sort out their own affairs for a bit.

For anyone who doesn’t know what on earth I am talking about, you should have paid more attention to the release of earlier instalments of The Adventures and Misadventures of Lucifer Box R.A. (or whatever they will call it when it when these memoirs are discovered after my untimely and no doubt dramatic demise). If you think I am starting over for latecomers you are sorely mistaken. So, back to it…. solitude was all I desired at present, everything else could go hang.

As my energies and appetites slowly returned however, if the urge for…company… proved irresistible, Charlie was always on hand to provide his enthusiastic and energetic assistance. Charlie Jackpot (a strikingly handsome young man I had acquired in Italy and who now was working as my valet) had made himself quite indispensable during the dark days after our first return to England and the encounter with Ms Pok, and I was grateful. Not that I vocalised it of course, with servants and lovers always the upper hand.  
I had found a renewed interest in my painting, and had spent long hours in my studio working on several new pieces of which I was more than usually proud. I even started to accept commissions after a while, and was beginning to feel something akin to my old self. It was one such commission that I was finishing on the day in question.

Mrs Emma Hamilton was seated in a chair in front of me as I finished her portrait. It was the last of several sittings and I confess I was a little sad that our time together was coming to an end. Mrs Hs’ trustee had engaged me to paint the lady’s portrait to hang in the grand hall of the family estate, to celebrate the 200yr anniversary of the family seat in Surrey. She was in her early 30s, widowed early I came to understand, and at first she seemed reluctant to be painted at all.  
Not short but certainly not tall, Mrs H had a heart shaped face and large green eyes (which were her best feature) a smallish nose, smallish mouth and brunette hair. Nothing remarkable (I certainly would not have given her more than one glance had I come across her in the street) but quite a straightforward subject to paint, everything at least being symmetrical and in proportion to everything else. But I found as our time together went on, that I had been entirely wrong in my assessment of Mrs H.

She was almost entirely silent at our first meeting, her trustee, a Mr Truman (a stocky, barrel chested fellow with a loud voice and a brusque manner) brought her up to my rooms, explained what was required and left as abruptly as he had arrived, choosing to hover outside the front door. Mrs H had smiled and sat. She followed my instructions as to posture, position etc., smiled sweetly and nodded in response to my very small talk (as I say it had been a while since I had had any society except Charlie’s and I was out of practice at being scintillating on demand). I was glad for the opportunity to stretch my conversational muscles, and Mrs H proved to be a willing recipient, or at least, a captive audience. As I have often found with clients, she began to relax at our next meeting and it was then that she spoke to me properly for the first time. I had been idly prattling on about Nietzsche whilst my brush worked on the curve of her jaw, I was saying something half remembered about his thoughts on the futility of existence (mostly to see if I could elicit some other response from my subject than a nod or a monosyllabic assent) when she interrupted me and said  
“I find Nietzsche a tad bleak Mr Box, don’t you? He postulates on the pointlessness of existence because the world is without meaning or purpose, but I see that as a challenge, an opportunity for experiencing all that one can, and finding one’s own truth, one’s own raison d’etre, don’t you agree?”

But I didn’t hear a word she said, for it was the sound of her voice that attracted all my attention. Well spoken, soft and a little deeper than I had been expecting and with a slight breathiness (not the fake husky whisper affected by so many ladies these days in order to appear alluring, this was quite natural), and…spellbinding. I stared at her mouth as she spoke and continued to stare until I saw her lips mouth the words  
“Mr Box?” and then again “Mr Box?”  
I forced myself back into the room.  
“Forgive me, my dear, I was a thousand miles away, examining the curve of your ucipital mapillary” (and yes I am aware that the correct term is ‘suprasternal notch’, but I prefer the way the former feels in my mouth as I say it, and I always give in to what feels good on my tongue). “What were you saying?”  
She repeated her assertion and I forced myself to hear the words not the music that made them.  
“Indeed, indeed, quite so” I said quickly, purely to say something, because I was transfixed by the effect that her lovely voice had on her appearance. As she spoke her face and figure transformed before my eyes, her skin seemed to radiate with light, her eyelashes thickly coated the almond slant of her eyes, still green but now flecked with gold, her hair became more lustrous and her bosom and waist more shapely. It was remarkable, almost magical. And it was an effect that continued with every syllable she uttered. I was reminded of the Welsh folktale of the birds of Rhiannon, whose voices were so beautiful it was said they would lead dead men back from the grave and living men astray forever.

I had observed of course the opposite effect in many of my acquaintance. How a beautiful face and frame can, once one discovers that its owner is an odious toad, appear more and more repellent until their unpleasant character has drained every ounce of beauty from their features. I was however, intrigued to see the opposite effect illustrated so dramatically before my own, very fine, blue eyes.  
I encouraged her to talk, fascinated by how her voice had transformed her face and figure into those as handsome as I had ever seen, and I felt challenged to capture this strange effect on my canvas. A beauty that only revealed itself aurally, I mused, a sense nigh-on impossible to capture in paint I am sure you will agree, even for someone with my extraordinary talents with a brush.

As our sessions continued we conversed more and more, at first because I wanted to listen to the sound of her voice and observe its curious effect on her countenance but increasingly because we were able to speak easily together. I had spoken to hardly a soul except Charlie for a couple of months and found speaking to my peers at the club or even the regulars at the pomegranate rooms a struggle and a chore. But Mrs H was different. I worked and listened as she spoke of literature, psychology and of palaeontology. And I in turn recounted stories of art, travel and the theatre. I found I was also divulging things I had not told a living soul before and was surprised at my candour, I told myself it was either to keep Mrs H talking or merely because I was out of practice with the art of talking much but saying little. Presently I was talking a lot and saying even more. Nothing classified or significant you understand, members of HMSS are trained better than that, keeping dark is lesson one, these were unimportant but personal truths. The effect of Mrs H upon my tongue unsettled and intrigued me, and as our acquaintance continued I found her affecting more than just my tongue. 

We met regularly in my studio. She seated, in a petrol blue dress, me in a loose fitting white shirt behind my easel. I would peer over the top of the canvas from time to time and just watch her staring off into the middle distance. The picture was coming along very well, if I do say so myself, and I was hopeful of it being one of the finest of my recent, post Naples, work.  
“Your name” I enquired one morning as I was grappling with the difficulties the changing light was having on the silk of Mrs H’s skirts “was it deliberate on your parents’ part?”  
Her eyebrow flickered.  
“To name you after Nelson’s mistress?”  
Her laugh was soft and warm. “I don’t believe so” she said.  
“Perspicacious of them” I returned, her brows knotted momentarily, leaving an infinitesimal vertical line above her nose which for some reason I found very endearing, “to name you after the most beautiful woman of her day”  
I said this from behind my canvas, and she made no response, but peeping out I saw her drop her eyes and the tiniest of smiles dance across her lips. I felt a pleasure in seeing that secret smile that I had not expected.  
“I read somewhere” I continued, my voice lower and quieter than before, “that she was once described as the only woman in society who did not offend at least one of the senses...neither those of sight, smell, sound or…”  
I let the words ‘touch’ and ‘taste’....linger unsaid in the air between us. I was delighted to observe a blush rising on her cheeks. The female company I have mostly kept in recent years are (due to their nature of their work) creatures who rarely blush. Although I admit with some pride that I have managed it on a few occasions.

However much I was enjoying Mrs H’s company, this sentiment was not shared by the other permanent member of my household. Charlie did not like Mrs H and made his feelings increasingly plain. As my admiration increased, so did his animosity towards the lady. I knew Charlie to be a jealous fellow and he had after all had me all to himself for many weeks, and he showed his displeasure at this other focus of my affections with increasing fervour. He would bring tea only when reminded and would crash it down on the table before slamming the door behind him. He would stomp about the house if he felt our sessions were exceeding the length of time he considered reasonable, and most infuriatingly, he was sulky and sullen when we were alone. Sometimes the only way to ensure I was fed breakfast at all was to surrender to a round of nocturnal acrobatics. And even then I found Mrs H stealing her way into my thoughts in spite of the, shall we say, masculine nature of our activities. 

And so it was that our final painting session was coming to an end. I could have finished two sessions earlier but made excuses for her to return. I stood now brush in hand but with nothing to paint, peering at my subject over my easel and wondering how to keep her here still longer. In the faint breeze that was wafting across the studio through the attic window, I watched a silky tendril of her hair dance gently at her neck for the longest time, and when a puff of air blew it across her face I made an involuntary step towards her, I imagine to take it in my fingers and tuck it behind her ear as my inner voice prompted me, but a rare sense of propriety intervened and I stopped myself, but not before she noticed the movement. She turned her head and we faced each other, with only the portrait between us, no words, just stillness. Her lips parted and she made to speak when several rhythmic thumps indicated that Charlie was approaching the door. He let himself into the studio without knocking, unforgivable behaviour in a valet & infuriating even in a lover, and I shot him a poisonous look before I could stop myself. He took the full force of it and I watched the anger well up inside him, tensing every muscle in his Doryphoros-like frame. 

Before he had a chance to speak I said breezily “Ahh Charles just the fellow, I desperately need some cerulean blue, be a dear chap and pop down to Galbraiths’ and purchase some more?”  
He eyed me suspiciously and remained as still as salt.  
“Quick as you can my dear boy or we'll never get this portrait finished will we?”  
I flashed him my most dazzling smile. At this stimulus he was reanimated, took the empty cerulean blue paint pot from my hand (the pot that I had emptied seconds before with a rag which was now hidden behind my back sopping with enough blue paint to capture the views from Nice, Villefranche and the entire Cote D’Azur), gave Mrs H a withering glance and left the room. We stayed motionless as we listened to him stomp down the stairs and slam the front door behind him. The silence that followed echoed around the studio. 

“Would you like to see your portrait?” I said at last.  
Without saying a word Mrs H rose and walked towards the easel, hesitantly coming around the side to stand in front of the fruits of my labours. I stood behind her, so close as to be almost touching but not quite. I could smell her perfume for the first time, a subtle, cool hint of lotus flowers. I waited while she took it in (the painting I mean, let’s not get ahead of ourselves) and, after what seemed an age, I leant down and put my lips close to her ear. I could see the pulse beating in her neck and I felt an immediate response to her proximity somewhere in my nether regions as I whispered...”what do you think?”  
She made to reply but instead of speech an involuntary sound came from the back of her throat, a sound that I instantly recognised had nothing to do with my brushwork and everything to do with my breath on her skin. She turned to face me and we found our lips inches from one another’s.  
“I believe” she whispered with an almost imperceptible smile “you have captured me”. 

On the battered leather chaise longue in the corner of my studio, Mrs H and I began to get to know each other rather better.  
As I fumbled with several layers of petticoat I was reminded of being a boy playing pass the parcel at some god awful children’s party. The anticipation and excitement building, wanting nothing more than to tear through the layers of coloured paper to discover the treasure at its heart. And here I was, lifting layer upon layer of crinoline to discover the silken treasures within.  
“Sotto voce Mr Box” whispered Mrs H, as I lost myself in the moment “your valet may return at any moment”.  
I allowed a laugh to escape my lips.  
“Charlie won’t be back for ages I assure you. The brand of paint I sent him to Galbraiths for, (I paused for effect) “isn’t carried by Galbraiths. He shall have to go across town to Beaumonts, he will be absent for at least an hour. And please, my name is Lucifer”.  
“Well then”, she smiled up at me…… 

Bang! The front door to number nine burst open and we heard Charlie’s feet thundering up the stairs, two at a time. He was running. I glanced at the wall clock, there was no possible way he could have purchased the paint in ten minutes, what on earth was he doing back so soon? It was the work of a moment for Mrs H to extricate herself from the chaise, smooth down her skirts, smooth up her hair and gather her belongings in her arms before Charlie exploded through the doors of the studio. Breathless, beads of sweat glistening on his temples his eyes scoured the room, and he clutched in his hand a folder, with papers escaping from its insides as his arm shook with what looked like absolute fury.  
“Charles you --- what the devil do you think you are doing?” I shouted incredulously, tucking in my shirt whilst trying to appear as if I wasn’t.  
Charlie pointed the folder at Mrs H “I knew it” he shrieked “I knew she was bloody trouble Lucifer” but Mrs H interrupted him.  
“I see you and Mr Jackpot have things to discuss Mr Box, I will send a carriage for the portrait. Thank you for your time” and she glid towards the door.  
Charlie moved and blocked her path. She raised her scarlet parasol and tapped him lightly on the side of the arm. “Excuse me” she said quite calmly, but her eyes flashed as she spoke. They stood there for a moment, neither of them dropping their gaze, then he moved away jerkily and leant on the back of the chaise, dropping his papers as she swept past him. I raced into the hall to follow her, but she was already down the stairs and at the door before I even had time to call her name.  
I heard the front door slam for the third time that morning. 

Incensed, I stampeded my way back into the studio. There was Charlie, leaning awkwardly over the back of the chaise, the side of his face pressed hard against the cushions, wearing an expression of surprise and pain. I approached but before I got within three foot of him, I knew he was dead. There were no obvious signs of injury, but he was most assuredly dead.


	2. The Mystery of Verity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie is gone, Delilah is doing her thing, so Lucifer heads off to meet Joshua, but gets into a scrape on his return.

The domestics scurried around the studio at number nine Downing Street with the energy and focus of worker ants. One of the most advantageous aspects of working for her Majesty’s service, most secret, was that disturbances of the murderous kind could be dealt with as easily as one would deal with butter that had dribbled from ones crumpet onto one’s cuff. A telegram was all it took and experts would shuffle round, gather up the offending article and whisk it away to be...laundered.  
The domestics were the indefatigable minions of the RA, whose job it was to clean up any aftermath when the work of protecting the nation had become…untidy. By which I mean there were either reputations or viscera littering the floor. It was usually one of the two.  
They would remove bodies, scrub blood-splattered walls and generally make all shining and new. No come-back, no consequences, no nagging worries that one had dropped a monogrammed cigarette case under the bed of a Russian countess, or an idiosyncratic lapel pin in the neck of a despot’s first lieutenant. In amongst their almost silent activities I sat, motionless, on a stool in the far corner of the studio, while Delilah and her crew went about their work like the elves to my shoemaker. I barely registered the movement around me. All I could think was 'The bitch. She did this. She killed Charlie.' 

My beautiful valet and friend had been unceremoniously done away with, obviously with poison injected into him from the tip of Mrs H’s parasol. My thoughts kept running over those last few moments. Charlie’s agitated return, Mrs H’s attempt to leave and Charlie barring her way, her poking him with her brolly and her hasty getaway. And less than twenty seconds later, Charlie was dead. His peculiar jerking movements as he leant on the back of the chaise longue - how did I not see it immediately? It was so transparent. How had I let this happen? Again. Had I not learnt my lesson with Bella Pok? A beautiful mysterious woman turns up at the house and turns out to be an insane, homicidal maniac. Again.  
Revenge filled my mind, the desire for it bubbled up inside me, fizzing under my skin like boiling champagne. My heartbeat thumped in my ears and the air was thick with one thought. Retribution. That duplicitous harpy will would pay for this.  
I was across the room in an instant, my long legs making short work of the distance from stool to door. In my hurry, I kicked the folder of papers that Charlie had brought with him, scattering them across the paint-speckled wooden floor of the studio. One of the domestics, the one with fists like hams and more neck than one would expect to see in a circus wrestling champion, (I think her name is Daisy) struggled to pick up the sheets in her rubber gloved hands, her fingers pushing the leaves around as if she were attempting to play shove ha’penny. 

Seconds later I was out on the street and heading at speed for that particular set of toilets in Piccadilly. I chose to travel on foot rather than hail a cab, because, still bursting with anger and adrenaline, sitting in the back of a taximeter was too passive, I needed to move, to do something. For new readers may I assure you that I was not running a mile across London in order to utilise the public facilities, I was hastening to make contact with an old friend, one who, I was sure, could be of assistance in locating this poisonous - in both the figurative and actual sense - female.  
The friend in question was Joshua Reynolds, a close pal of my late father's and my immediate superior at the Royal Academy. Regulars to my tales will be aware that the bathrooms at Burlington House held an elaborate set up of secret passageways, by which the agents and the analysts (who handled the 'dry work') could come and go unnoticed. And it was here that I arrived, hot, sweating, my collar sagging and my shoes dusty. Occupying one of the stalls, I sat on the lid of the privy, and waited, impatiently thrumming my fingers on the lid of the ceramic paper holder. 

The sound of a flush and a scrabble of shoes on tile told me that Reynolds’ had arrived in the stall next to mine. The connecting wall between the two cubicles slid aside, revealing the squat, jolly, middle aged figure that was Joshua Reynolds. His little legs didn’t reach the floor of the cubicle from his seat, and he repetitively kicked his feet in front of him like a toddler in a high chair. He took in my dishevelled appearance with a glance but made no allusion to it by word or gesture and instead, smiling, he chided me playfully in his high, nasal vibrato.  
“Oh dear Lucifer, another valet down? You really must take more care, this is becoming a habit. We are not made of valets you know”. 

The RA usually provides valets for their employees, half butler, half bodyguard you understand, but Charlie had not been an RA plant, he was engaged by me, on our return from Italy. I knew however, that he had been ‘looked in to’ the minute he moved into number nine, but nothing had ever been said. And given that my official RA valets had a habit of being knifed in the back while at an errand to the tailors, or of falling into the Thames at 3am whilst fishing, I think the RA was rather relieved to have a break from supplying me with personal attendants. At Joshua’s comments I said nothing, the anger bubbling up inside me once again. However, my lack of eye contact, together with my hands tightening into fists at my sides were enough to stop him in his scolding and rethink his approach. 

“Erm. Sorry my dear fellow, thoughtless of me. Was this young man, was he a friend of yours?”  
I was in no mood to even attempt to discuss Charlie’s role in my household, professional or otherwise. I was here for one purpose only. I snapped at my old friend in reply  
“That is immaterial. What I require from you is assistance in finding the person responsible”.  
Reynolds looked doubtful. I could see him taking in my obvious physical and emotional disarray and considering whether I was thinking clearly.  
“But my dear chap, do you suspect foul play? The initial word from the domestics was that it was an unknown death, not necessarily suspicious. No signs of a struggle I mean, no obvious wounds or anything of that sort. Are you sure it wasn’t just… one of those things?”  
“He was murdered --- and I know how and by who”. I outlined the story, leaving out the more delicate aspects of my association with both Charlie and Mrs H, while Joshua’s little mouth dropped open and snapped shut continually like a trout, until I had finished my account. I waited. He shook his head swiftly several times, as if to shuffle the information he had heard and let it settle in his mind.  
“Well, certainly Lucifer old boy it sounds fishy, very fishy indeed. Worth looking into I dare say. Do you know what it was Mr Jackpot had discovered about this Mrs Hamilton?“  
An image flashed across my mind of Daisy scrabbling on the floor to retrieve the folder of papers that Charlie had been brandishing on this final return to number nine. Their contents could wait.  
“That is of secondary import at the moment. I want her found. Then we can discuss her motives. Do you think you could get your back room boys on the case, track her down, known haunts, associates, that sort of thing?”  
“Of course of course. I am sure we can have something for you tomorrow at the latest, but please Lucifer, in the meantime, do go home and rest. And eat something for goodness sake, you are beginning to look positively emaciated’. It shows you how low my mood was that I could even be bothered to protest that my slim, graceful frame was entirely intentional. Although I must admit, in the few months since my return to London, I had not been giving my health or appearance the attention it usually received, and I may have appeared less radiant than usual. However, now that I had made a start on locating Mrs H, I began to notice that my empty stomach was growling quite audibly. 

I thanked Joshua and, saying my goodbyes, I left Burlington House feeling, if not better, then at least slightly more in control of my situation than I had when I arrived. I wandered off at a slower pace towards the Pomegranate Rooms. My clothes and hair were not fit to be seen in any decent eating establishment, and even though the domestics would be long gone and there would be no trace of the events of the morning, I could not face a return to the residence just yet. But, in spite of my attire, I was sure I would still be by far the best assembled guest at the Pomegranate. 

As I wandered up the street, the light beginning to fade, I allowed my mind to relax slightly. Joshua was on the case, the domestics had done their work, I had made a start on tracking down this, this woman and when I found her, she was going to pay for what she had done. I became quite lost in idle fantasies of the myriad of painful ways I could achieve this, my feet taking themselves down the alleys and short cuts from the main thoroughfare towards the pomegranate rooms with no conscious instruction from me. I had walked this way a thousand times before and I could have done so in my sleep. I forgive myself, therefore, that I was not giving my surroundings my full attention, lost as I was in thoughts of extracting information from Mrs H and finding out exactly what was worth hiding that it should cost Charlie his life. As I rounded a corner into a short alleyway that would bring me out adjacent to my destination, something occurred that brought my mind fully back to the present. 

A large gentleman with a heavy coat for such a balmy evening approached me. I say gentleman but it was very plain he was no such animal. He spat out of the side of his mouth as he came closer, the soles of his shoes had come away from the uppers, and they flapped against the pavement as he walked towards me. He smiled, showing teeth that were brown or missing entirely, his taut, sun burned skin tightening under the pressure of the movement. Whatever he wanted I was in no mood for it and tried to side step him before he could begin his entreaty. His lips moved to begin speech, but before the first word was out of his mouth (got a light sir? Spare some change? Fancy some company?) I gave a sharp “apologies, but no” even before I realised that what he had said was  
“Mr Box?” I faltered in my step and he said again “Mr Lucifer Box?” I met his eye.  
“And who might you be?” But answer came there none. What did come was an almighty blow as his fist hit my jaw, so fast I had not seen it coming. I staggered and reached behind me for the wall of the alleyway to steady myself.  
“What the hell…” I began, but before I had the chance to fully comprehend what had happened, there came another colossal punch as his knuckles made contact with my delicate, and quite unfeasibly high, cheekbone, catching my nose as it continued its journey.  
“This is for Verity” came the reply from the man mountain. I was bent double, my head somewhere near my knees, and though my blurring vision I could see the blood pooling on the floor between my feet. Whether it came from my nose, cheek or mouth I could not tell, and it will show you how stunned I was that it only crossed my mind for the merest instant how frightful I would look come the morrow. The lights before my eyes made me realise that one more strike like that and I would be out for the count. This man, whoever he was, was two thumps ahead and much stronger than I. My rejoinder must be one of skill or intellect, not force, and it must be quick, or else I shall find myself meeting Charlie again far earlier than anticipated.  
“What the devil is this about? I don't know any Verity”. I spluttered.  
“Don't lie to me you posing, self-satisfied philanderer” he snarled. I could not deny it, I am all of those things, but try as I might in the fog of my now punch-drunk brain, the name Verity meant nothing to me. But there was no time to mentally finger through my rolodex of recent 'acquaintances', if I did not act now it would be too late. 

As my enormous assailant raised his arm to bring it down upon me once more, his grubby coat flapped open and I saw my opportunity. I am not for a moment suggesting that it was the act of a gentleman, but needs must, and so I hit out hard. There was a pause, and the fellow crumpled up like a concertina beside me, uttering a wheezing sound as he folded in on himself. I cannot defend my actions, punching a fellow in the family jewels can never be defended, but I did not see any other option, and besides, he had hardly thrown down a glove and offered to discuss the Queensbury rules before he laid into me unannounced. He would not be down for long however, I had bought myself a few seconds at most. I leapt up, trying to ignore the way that the movement made the alley spin around me, and grabbing his arm, I twisted it behind his back and upwards almost to the point where his arm would break.  
“Who are you?” I spat in his ear, all too literally as it happened, my mouth still pouring with blood.  
“Stay away from Verity” he growled, “or I won't be the only one next time”.  
“I have no idea who you are talking about” I exclaimed, but he just humphed in a disbelieving manner. I had had enough of this. I have his arm a final yank, and, stepping over the fellow, I left him to nurse his dislocated shoulder.  
I removed the ochre pocket square from my jacket and dabbed cautiously at my face as I made my unsteady way out of the alley and back down the street. My lip was split and I would probably have two black eyes tomorrow, judging from the way the bridge of my nose was throbbing. I was now in such a state of dishevelment that I could not even show my bruised and bloodied face at the pomegranate rooms, so I headed home to number nine, ignoring the looks I received from the pedestrians’ en-route.


	3. The Island Of Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Ms H brings answers, but many more questions.

A warm bath and glass or two of claret and I was feeling, if not my old self, then something approaching it. My brief altercation in the alley had, at least given me the opportunity to let off some steam. The anger I had felt all day, the impotence, betrayal and grief had a fleeting outlet in action, even if I was none the wiser as to why it had occurred. I lay back in the tub, the scented water lapping soothingly around me as I pondered the most recent of events. I was not feeling strong enough to tackle the events of the morning, and I had nothing more to go on… yet, so I concentrated on the lesser mystery. Verity. Verity. I honestly could not recall any such person in my recent past. I am not going to pretend to you dear reader that, in the heat of the moment, I always stop for title and address but it was an unusual occurrence if we do not at least begin with the polite pleasantries such as an introduction. I reached for my glass...in vino veritas. Ah well, it was probably of no import. There were bigger problems to be solved at present. I raised my knees and slid my head under the water, my face stinging and throbbing from the contact, but it was a distraction, it gave my mind something else to focus on momentarily. 

Re the homestead, the domestics had done a fine job, all traces had been tidied away and the events of the evening had managed to distract me sufficiently from wallowing in the events of the morning. But as I sat in my velvet wingback chair in the drawing room, clean and warm in my dressing gown, I allowed myself to put my mind to the topic I had been putting off since I got home.  
The image of Charlie lying awkwardly over the chaise was seared into my mind, but I made a considerable effort to force it from my thoughts, that wouldn't help now.  
I replaced it with a memory of him on the ship heading home from Italy, on the deck, late at night after a good meal and some wonderful wine. His hair was blown wild and he was laughing as he fought for speech against the blusterous weather and tried in vain to stop his Ascot necktie from whipping him across the face. I remembered standing in front of him, shielding him from the wind, and attempting to manhandle his tie back under control. Retying it for him (he was always shocking when it came to neck attire) and folding down his collar, his voice came clear for a second through the gale “I said, you are the best fun I’ve ever had!” he grinned and then, suddenly, his beautiful face transformed into the twisted death mask I had been trying to forget, crashing back into the front of my mind and refusing to budge this time. I closed my eyes but it was still there, like a retina burned afterimage, bright and inescapable.  
I shook my head violently from side to side, trying to shake the memory loose from where it had a stranglehold. No more procrastination, no more moping, that was not going to help. I had things to do now, mysteries to solve. Where was Mrs H? What was she hiding? I remembered the folder of loose papers that Charlie was waving about in the last minutes before he... whatever he had been about to divulge about Mrs H was certainly the reason for his death, but what information could possibly have warranted it? It was likely to be all there in the papers. I got up from my emerald green seat (I would say leapt up, but it had been a trying day) and rooted around for the folder in each of the rooms of number nine that I currently occupied. 

Regular subscribers will recall that, although the address was indeed salubrious, my meagre wages at the RA, plus those funds I mustered from my art, were nowhere near enough to ensure the upkeep of such a grand place. So I was forced to keep my living quarters to three of the main rooms, leaving the rest of this historic piece of 17th century architecture to quietly decay. I hunted high and low for a good ten minutes before I realised the domestics must have taken the papers, along with everything else, for analysis. Even, I surmised, the finished portrait of Mrs H, which was also nowhere to be found. Never mind, I would hear from Joshua in the morning no doubt, he would have information for me then. Reassured by this thought, I sank back into the softness of the chair, and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

I awoke to the sound of the door knocker. I glanced at the clock, 8.15am, no one of my acquaintance would call at such an ungodly hour, and any that did would get no truck from me. I was about to resettle myself and ignore the noise from below, when my brain clicked into gear and I sat bolt upright. Joshua. I hastily drew my dressing gown around me (Persian silk and of a hue that flatter my eyes enormously, or so I have been told) and my bare feet made the stairs two at a time.  
Opening the door I was faced with a young boy in a too big postal uniform holding out a telegram. He looked up at me and his face told me everything I needed to know about the state of my own the morning after my encounter with, I am presuming, Verity’s father or possibly fiancé? I watched, irritated, as his eyes raked across my face, he looked…sympathetic. I snatched the paper from his grubby little fist and dismissed the boy with a wave. That look had done for his tip. The telegram was from Joshua. It read…

'Narrow St. The Grapes. Elsa '.

Limehouse. One of the East Ends more degraded corners, 20-30yrs ago in the final decades of the reign of Queen Victoria, Limehouse had been all opium dens, sailors and brothels (and not in a good way), it was a mile or so from Whitechapel and the horrors that still haunt those streets, and even in these more civilised times, it was still one of the filthiest and most hazardous areas of London.  
The Grapes itself was a tiny little public house on the banks of the Thames, and had been on the spot since the reign of Good Queen Bess. Sir Walter Raleigh had set sail from the waters directly underneath the inn itself, Samuel Pepys was a frequent visitor, Dickens also, but it was now in squalid condition. Cramped and dark, it looked exceedingly uninviting, working class charm having given way to criminal class menace. I stood outside on the street, it was barely 9.30am, and gathered my thoughts.  
I had been so intent on finding the lady in question, I had not settled on a solid plan for how to deal with her once she was under my hand. Regardless, I strode inside like I owned the place, ignoring the ‘closed’ sign on the door and, my eyes adjusting to the darkness of the interior, I approached the bar. An extraordinarily elderly codger hobbled over, so wizened I almost quipped that he must be the original owner, but resisted the temptation (well, one must resist some of them). I flashed the ancient fellow a smile (not as broad as I usually would when attempting to ingratiate myself, my bottom lip was still swollen and a tight scab had settled in a vertical line down the centre) and asked in an offhand manner 

“Morning my good man, I wonder, is Elsa receiving visitors? I know it’s early but..?”

“Don’t know any Elsa. Who wants to know?” he sniffed, standing facing me, one hand now reaching down below the bar out of sight, to where I presumed there was a weapon of some kind. This however meant nothing, for I had seen his eyes dart towards a small wooden door in the far corner of the dingy sitting area when I mentioned the name, he had already lost this game.

“Oh no one of consequence” I replied, “was just hoping to catch her for a spot of tea. Never mind, I will try again later” and I swept out of the door before he had a chance to question me further. 

I walked down the street in as nonchalant a manner as I could muster, my blood already rising at the thought that she was here, I had her. I glanced behind me towards the pub, then, when satisfied that I was not observed, nipped down the side of a row of almost derelict houses that lined the river between me and The Grapes. The tide was low but I was still unable to walk along the riverbank to the back wall of the pub, and so was forced to scramble and claw my way along the backs of the buildings that jutted out over the water, scraping my hands and shoes on the rough brickwork as I made my way along towards the back of the inn itself. Surmising that the wooden door {which the old man had inadvertently told me would lead to Elsa/Mrs H} led to stairs to the first floor (I dismissed the possibility of it being a basement as those of a public drinking house are almost entirely given over to barrel storage and rats, I doubted Mrs H would hide out there if she could help it), I quickly clambered up the decaying weather beaten bricks that had held the public house together since the 16th century, and one swift bash with my fist on the outside of the nearest first storey window pane saw the horizontal lever pop up and the window swing open. This was not luck you understand, metal window levers on wooden frames will jump up out of their moorings at the slightest provocation, which is why I have sash windows at number nine. This has been a useful piece of information over the years, one that has enabled me ingress to many a supposedly secure address, for business and for pleasure you understand.  
However, I deviate (but you knew that already).

Once I had wrestled myself through the window, the glass of which was opaque with grime, I straightened my clothes and looked about me. I was in a dark wood-panelled corridor, bare except for three doors, all closed. Selecting the wrong door may alert others to my presence, and yet all three looked identical. Which to choose? As I stood staring at the doors, none giving me any clue as to which held Mrs H, the words of Joshua Reynolds came back to me as I was being trained up at the RA, many moons ago. ‘When looking for the truth, remember to look with more than just your eyes’. Despite its platitudinous nature, these words had stuck with me, and proved invaluable at this moment. I silently navigated the floorboards of the corridor and touched the wood of each of the three doors in turn. Cold. Cold. Ever so slightly warm. There was a fire in the grate behind this door alone. I pressed my face close to the door jamb. There was no noise at all from within. I tried the doorknob, turning it as gently and quietly as I could manage. It was not locked. The door swung open without the creak I was expecting, someone had oiled the hinges very recently. 

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The room contained a bed, a writing desk, a panelled room divider, a suitcase and a red umbrella. Scarlet red. The suitcase was open and contained a few rather fine dresses, to judge from the fabric, one of which was a petrol blue gown I knew very well. The writing desk had on it an unfinished letter and pen (lid off), as well as a notebook that was open and full of (from this distance) illegible scrawl. I paused. A very faint aroma came to my nostrils, a water-clean and (only ever so slightly) sweet scent that I had smelt before. The perfume of the lotus flower. She was still here. My eyes darted to the panelled divider, it was the only possible place to hide. 

“Come out” I said, emotionless, though I felt anything but.  
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Mrs H / Elsa’s head peeped out from the side of one of the panels. She looked at me with fear in her eyes, then confusion flashed across her face, then she broke into a grin, leapt from behind the divider and ran over to me. 

“Lucifer, my goodness, how did you find me?” she whispered as she took my hands in hers and squeezed them. “I heard what happened to Charles, I am so sorry, but what are you doing here? What happened to your face?”  
I said nothing. Rage ignited inside me the instant she mentioned Charlie. That she would dare to speak his name to me, that she would attempt to fane innocence of her involvement sickened me. I could contain myself no longer.  
I shook my hands free from hers, preferring to place one at her throat and the other over her mouth. I walked forward, pushing her backwards until her body thumped hard against the damp wall. She looked bewildered, then frightened, her beautiful green eyes as large as saucers above my hand. She tried to fight me off, scraping at my fingers with her nails and trying to wriggle free. I held her to the wall with the force of my own body, pinning her like a lepidopterist pins a butterfly. The only problem with this simile being that a butterfly is dead before it is pinned to the board, whereas Mrs H was alive, but only for the next few minutes I consoled myself.

“Not another word” I hissed. “Not one sound will escape your lips until I say so or I will break your neck with my bare hands, understand?”  
She nodded with difficulty, staring at me imploringly. I put my mouth to the side of her head and whispered  
“before I kill you, I want to know why. Why did you do it? What on earth was so important, more important than his life? Tell me now, and I shall end you quickly and painlessly. But if I even sense that you are holding back I will make you suffer, I promise you that. I am going to remove my hand from your mouth now, and if you make any attempt to summon help, the hand at your throat will squeeze the life out of you”.  
She remained as still as stone while I spoke, but a tear dropped from her eye and ran down her cheek and over my fingers. Tears never worked on me however, a weapon of last resort for the losing side. I removed one hand from her mouth slowly, just to be sure she wasn’t about to scream, and when she didn’t, I rested it on the wall next to her head. She stared at me.

“Talk. Quickly”.  
“I don’t understand” she muttered, barely audibly.  
“Last chance” I said, tightening my grip on her neck ever so slightly. “Tell me why you killed Charlie, what did he find out about you?”  
“I swear Lucifer, I didn’t, I don’t know what you are talking about, how on earth could I have killed him, when I left he was still alive, you know that. I promise I didn’t hurt him, you have to believe me”.  
“Have it your way” I said between gritted teeth and began to squeeze. Her face started to turn red, she struggled against me, but to no avail. Scarlet turned to puce.  
“Wait” she mouthed, although no sound came. I considered whether to ignore her and finish the job, but I had not found out why she had poisoned Charlie, and I would rather know if I were to have any peace of mind. So I released the pressure at her throat fractionally and waited.  
“I didn’t kill him” she began, I had heard this before however and I began to increase my grip and get this over with “but (she could barely speak now) I know what he found out. About me”. I paused. “I’ll tell you, just please stop”. I hesitated. There was no reason to believe that she would tell me the truth, but if I sensed she was lying I could finish what I started. 

I released her neck, and put my hand on her shoulder, pressing it into the wall. “Well?” She gulped and coughed for a few moments, then in faltering words said  
“My name isn’t Emma and I am not an idle county heiress. I am in hiding. Mr Truman and others are protecting me. I have a secret that must be safeguarded”.  
“And that is?”  
“I cannot tell you”. The muscles in my jaw tightened and I raised my hand from her shoulder towards her throat.  
“Whatever it is it was worth killing my friend for, so you will tell me. Now”.  
“Lucifer I didn’t, I swear to you”.  
“Well then Truman or the others (who are these others?) did it. And stop calling me Lucifer”.  
She hesitated. “I cannot say for sure that they didn’t, but I would be greatly surprised if they had. Our…collective…we were formed to create peace, I cannot imagine that any of them would commit murder of someone so wholly unconnected with our…work”.  
“So you admit they would commit murder then?”  
She lowered her head “only in the most extreme of circumstances, certainly Mr Jackpot would not qualify as that I am sure”.  
“Then what had he discovered about you? What was in those papers?”  
“That I am not who I claimed to be? That my address is not real, that I am a…missing person, that Mr Truman is not my trustee? I don’t know exactly what he found out Lucifer, but we didn’t kill him for it. I wish you could believe me”.  
“Why should I believe anything you say, when you won’t tell me what this secret is of yours? This collective, what is their purpose? What are you hiding from?”  
“Lucifer, please, I can’t”.  
“Stop calling me that” I almost shouted. “Tell me or I will end this now”.  
“I will tell you this, Mr Box, but you must understand that you knowing any if this will put your life in real jeopardy. From more than one direction. I would rather save you from danger, even if I couldn’t save your friend”.  
“I am running out of patience Ms Whateveryournameis, you have two minutes or I will finish what I started”.  
“Very well Mr Box.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know the location of Chin-Mae”.

She said this as if it should explain everything. “And who might that be?” (I knew that Chin-Mae was a male first name, Korean possibly, but further than that it rang no bells, there were no eminent Chin-Maes’ that I was aware of at the time, none to cause all this fuss anyway).  
“It is of vital importance that Chin-Mae’s location be kept absolutely secret. The entire world depends on it”. I scoffed. “It’s true, Lucif...Mr Box, Chin-Mae has the power to change the world. Peace, real peace. There is nothing we won’t do to ensure that outcome”.  
“So your collective are…”  
“Protecting me to protect Chin-Mae. I am the only one who knows the secret location, and I have sworn to guard the secret with my life. Chin-Mae will change the world, no more war, no more deceit, a world of harmony. Chin-Mae will revolutionise the way all people think and behave, and create everlasting peace. Imagine a world of total trust and understanding, it can happen, Chin-Mae can make it a reality, imagine it Mr Box”.

I was unsure what to make of this evangelical outpouring. My first instinct was to dismiss it out of hand as utter codswallop, but then...if you were relying on a story to save your life, would you create such a fantasy as this? Some sort of Second-Coming? A tale so highly unlikely to be believed? Surely it would make more sense to concoct something that sounded plausible to better aide your survival. Either this was a very risky bluff (relying on the fact I couldn’t believe anyone would chose such a far-fetched story unless it were true) or she did in fact believe what she was saying.  
Before I could respond however, there came a soft knock at the door. Elsa (a name that would do for now) looked at me and shook her head in silence, she was not expecting anyone. There was no time for me to hide, and even if I did Elsa would be free to tell whoever was at the door that there was a mad strangler behind the divider.

“Ahem. Telegram for Elsa” came the voice from the corridor, “from a JR?”  
What on earth? Joshua Reynolds contacting me here? I couldn’t imagine what would cause him to take such a risk. I turned and, grabbing Elsa by the elbow, yanked her across the room and flung her towards the door, instructing her in hushed tones to open the door a fraction, take the telegram and close the door. No talking, no signalling. She did as I asked, all the while I had hold of her other arm, holding it in a similar manner to that Verity fellows the evening before. As she closed the door I ripped the telegram from her hand and pushed her down onto the bed.  
“Sit”. I tore open the missive. It read simply...

'Brolly innocent. Papers guilty. Target artist not valet. Hope not too late. JR.’ 

Oh. I looked Elsa, crumpled on the bed, she looked very small and tired, but determined. She looked me full in the eye and croakily said “Well?”. I didn't know quite what to make of it. So the papers Charlie was carrying, the ones meant for me to read, were the poisoned articles, not Elsa’s parasol at all. Someone was trying to kill me, Charlie must have opened the papers (typical of the inquisitive fool) and accidentally come into contact with the poison. I had to admit it seemed unlikely that Elsa was to blame. I could instantly think of at least twenty people who wanted me dead, and given a full minute I could make the list stretch to fifty, maybe even that beast from yesterday, he of the Verity mystery. I sank down on the bed next to Elsa.  
“It seems” I sighed, “that you may not have been responsible for Charlie’s death after all. New information suggests...you may be innocent”.  
“MAY be innocent? Mr Box I have been telling you, it was nothing to do with me’”  
“Yes erm, I am inclined to believe you. For the moment. It appears that I was the intended victim, not poor Charlie after all. But that doesn't mean it couldn’t have been one of your cronies, trying to protect this Chin-Mae character. Or to protect you, to end the distraction of our...friendship”.  
“Do you really think that is what happened?” She asked, raising her eyebrows, the hint of a tone in her voice that wasn't there before.  
“No. I can think of many more plausible suspects who would want to bump me off if I am honest” I admitted a little sheepishly.

She looked at the telegram, which was still in my hand.  
“How did you think I had done it?”  
“Poison in the tip of your umbrella”.  
“A deadly bumbershoot? A little far-fetched isn’t it?”  
I smiled inwardly, another suspicion confirmed.  
“In hindsight, maybe”.  
“So, what are you going to do now?” ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Isle of Dogs (for those wondering why there are no actual dogs in this chapter) is the name given to the part of the East End of London that Limehouse is in. No one really knows why it is called this, there are many theories, but it has been named thus for nearly 500yrs.
> 
> The Grapes pub is well worth a visit, amazing history, lovely people, now owned by the wonderful Sir Ian McKellan. It is in a much better state than in Lucifer's day, and everything I said about Dickens, Pepys etc is all true.


	4. The Voyage Across the Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to a new fangled electric theatre provides information for Lucifer, and an opportunity to get Elsa back on side.

There was a postscript, the telegram finished 'Bioscope 1'. As an agent of the RA, Joshua Reynolds had been taught to be unpredictable in his movements, but this was so typical of J it was almost laughable. I looked across at Elsa, this could work perfectly.  
“Get up” I ordered, “we are leaving”, but my tone obviously wasn’t convincing. She looked at me but didn’t move.  
“Please” I said, trying to sound exasperated.  
“Where do you imagine we are going Mr Box?” She folded her arms. Now I was getting a little exasperated. This was why I always work alone, no one asking questions, having opinions or… challenging me. I took a slow intake of breath.  
“We are going to meet someone, someone who can clarify some things for me”.  
“I do not see how that affects me, Mr Box? You are free to leave my room whenever you like, but I have no intention of going with you. I have work to do”.  
“I am afraid you misunderstand the situation, Mrs, Miss, erm, whatever. I have work to do, and I am not going to let you out of my sight until I am completely satisfied that you neither had anything to do with Charlie’s death…”  
“But…you agreed it wasn’t me”  
“No, I said it seemed less likely given new information. As I was saying, until I am both completely satisfied you had nothing to do with Charlies death, and that you are not insane. I am as yet, convinced of neither. You are coming with me”.  
“Mr Box, my colleagues will not allow you to remove me against my will”.  
“You won't be leaving against your will, you are helping me to help you. The sooner our situation is clear the sooner you and your ‘collective’ can go back to...saving the world or whatever it is you think you are doing”.  
“If you understood, you would help us” she pouted slightly and looked away. I took out the pocket watch from my dove grey waistcoat, frowned and secreted it back in the soft silk of the pockets interior.  
“I'm sure, let's get a move on shall we?” and grabbing Elsa’s coat from the chair at the desk, I took her by the elbow and whisked her from the room, she grabbing for her umbrella as we swept past. I felt a little ripple of satisfaction at the look of shock on the old barman’s face as I threw open the door on the ground floor, the one at the back with which he had so blatantly given the game away, with Elsa at my side. “Good day” I said, doffing my hat to the withered octogenarian as we marched straight past him and out of the front door. As instructed Elsa gave the man a wave and a smile to indicate that nothing was amiss, and she even added a “we are just out for a spot of fresh air Hawkins, back soon, please don’t bother about luncheon” of her own volition. It crossed my mind for the briefest moment that this could be some secret code, a warning to get help, but I dismissed it with an internal scoff. 

So, the Bioscope. Reynolds is very fond of the moving pictures, fanatical would be more the word, he eats up those grainy grey flickerings as if they were sweets. I admit I am less enamoured, the stories themselves, while exciting to some I am sure, never live up to my day to day excursions and so leave me rather cold. I am however, very much in favour of the electric theatres that are beginning to spring up all over this great city, reeling off escapist adventures to the even the poorest pleasure seekers. The dark, crowded conditions, ladies and gentlemen squashed together in the gloom, the opportunities for other entertainments were myriad. I only discovered the places after I read in the paper that a Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police had labelled the venues as ‘demoralising places that lent themselves to indecent practices’, my interest was piqued naturally. There was one such electric theatre in Bishopsgate, the Daily Bioscope, and a mere 2 mile from Limehouse, and the number 1 I took to mean the 1pm show.

It was barely 11am, we would be excessively early if we travelled by cab, so I decided we should walk. This would also enable me to probe Elsa further about her ‘collective’. In order to do this of course I would have to soften her up a bit, even the most obliging of women would be forgiven for being a bit offish at being nearly throttled just after breakfast, and Miss Whatsit was certainly more than a bit offish. I decided to turn on the famous Lucifer charm, get her back on side as it were, loosen her lips. My first tack would be to turn off the main road towards Bishopsgate (this would have taken us up through Whitechapel, filthy roads still consumed with memories of the past, hardly the sort of place to make Elsa think less of the violence of the morning) and headed back towards the Thames. The walk would be longer and much more picturesque, giving me more time to win the lady round, and hopefully the beauties of the city would go some way to calming her mind.  
Walking down the path by the river, heading towards town, I took Elsa’s arm and threaded it through my own. She didn’t move her head but I saw her eyebrows knot questioningly as she stared ahead at the path.  
“In the absence of handcuffs I will be maintaining physical contact with you at all times until we return to your rooms. I do not want you running off until I am convinced of your innocence”. She raised her chin a little higher as we strode on, but said nothing.

Our route took us past the docks, the magnificent Tower Bridge, the Tower of London and London Bridge, where we would turn away from the river and proceed into town for ten minutes until we reached Bishopsgate, and the Daily Bioscope. As we walked I began to make small talk, pointing out things of interest on the way and asking her polite questions en-route. She was not forthcoming in her replies, so I monologued as we walked, telling her amusing stories and little known facts about the areas we walked through. I could sense her relaxing in my company as we walked further and further, but whenever I addressed her directly, I could feel her hackles rise and she would stiffen. So I continued to chatter. As we passed Tobacco Dock near Wapping, I recalled a tale which would be sure to glean some response, that of little John Wade and the Bengal tiger. The story goes that the tiger was being transported through the dock to the Emporium of one Charles Jamrach when it broke free, and trotted off down the cobbled street. All right minded fellows scattered, but a nine year old boy approached the beast and tried to stroke its nose. Foolish even in one so young, but this was the 1850s I suppose. The tiger gave the boy a swift but reportedly sheathed clot around the head with one of his massive paws and carried the now unconscious boy away in, what the game hunters call, a ‘soft mouth’. The merchant Mr Jamrach ran up and thrust his own bare fists into the tiger’s mouth and down its throat, until the tiger let go of the boy. As suspected this story elicited a series of gasps and exclamations, and she found herself staring at me while I told the tale, in spite of herself. I paused. Wide eyed like a child she whispered  
“What happened to the boy?” smiling inwardly that my plan had succeeded, she was now giving me eye contact and full sentences, I replied  
“The boy was unscathed and went on to sue the merchant for a great deal of money, while the tiger went began its new life as a live exhibit in the famous Whombell’s Menagerie”. She relaxed against my arm,  
“Thank goodness”, then she smiled “you do know some tall tales Mr Box, but you make for stimulating company I suppose”.  
“All true I assure you Madam, it was quite the most exciting thing to happen in these parts for many a year”. 

Walking on past St Katherine’s Dock we approached the marvel of engineering that was Tower Bridge (the Victorians certainly knew how to make objects of necessity into objects of unnecessary beauty) and I sensed that Elsa was waiting for something. She turned her face to mine and, smiling again, she said  
“Well?”  
“I'm sorry?”  
“Don't you have something to regale me with relating to the bridge?” I could have relayed any number of fascinating stories of course, but I sensed that she was ready for the next step in the softening up process.  
“I would prefer to listen to you” I answered.  
“You…want to hear about my work? Our work?” She was suddenly animated, slipping her arm from mine as she turned to face me, but putting her hand on my forearm as she moved, not breaking contact.  
“I could tell you all about how Chin-Mae will…”.  
“No” I whispered. “I want to hear about you, just you. Like when we were in the studio, remember?” A slight blush rose on her cheek, she remembered the studio.  
“Oh. Alright then”. And she took a deep breath, threaded her arm back through mine and, smiling shyly, she began.  
“What do you want to hear about? I...I had a dog when I was a girl, an old English sheepdog, big and fluffy and clumsy, His name was Cairo, named after my mother's favourite city”....she went on like this for a while, and whilst stories of others peoples childhood pets are universally dull and usually make me feel fully justified in doing away with the speaker in some elaborate and painful manner, it did at least allow me the opportunity to regain acquaintance with that melodious, mesmeric voice of hers. I made the required ‘hmmms and ohs’ when the moment seemed to call for it, but I confess I didn't really hear a word, only the beautiful tones that accompanied them.  
As I listened, the sun-sparkled water of the Thames brought a word to mind…Siren. Those beauties from Greek mythology who lured men to their deaths with their impossibly lovely voices, leading sailors to dash their ships on the rocks and drown in their attempts to reach these hypnotic and mortiferous creatures.

Our feet walked automatically along the river to the Tower of London, and past it a little way to London Bridge (which really is very dull indeed when viewed with its neighbours) we turned and strolled slowly into the city. I had managed to eke out the walk to nearly two hours, and by the time the electric theatre itself was in view, we were quite friends again. It is hard to remain angry at someone with whom you have spent a couple of hours walking and talking, even when one of the party isn’t the charming yours truly, and by the time we came close to our destination, Elsa was quite as vivacious and receptive as I remembered from our painting sessions, the last of which was only a couple of days ago, but seemed half a world away now.

I was to meet Joshua Reynolds in the screening room itself, the darkness and the noise of the piano that accompanied the moving pictures would cover our meeting ably. However, I did not wish Joshua to see that I had Elsa in tow (he would not speak freely in front of a civilian and he would be curious as to why she was in my company at all, given his previous communication stating that she was not the author of Charlie’s demise), nor did I want Elsa to leave my side until recent events were clearer, which I hoped my diminutive friend could assist with. Therefore, I had to meet Joshua whilst keeping a close eye on Elsa, simultaneously ensuring Joshua did not see her. Meeting at the theatre was serendipitous indeed therefore, the darkness and the close proximity of strangers would be very useful.  
As we approached the Bioscope, I stopped and turned to face Elsa.  
“I have a meeting here in a moment, one that I cannot miss, you will have to accompany me, if that is amenable?”  
“Here?” she said, looking up at the signage in confusion.  
“Yes I know, rum isn’t it. However, I will not be long, and it may help clarify our situation rather. You don’t mind do you?” I flashed her the famous ‘smile of Lucifer’ and she visibly melted. However, she endeavoured to look put out and gave a sigh  
“If you must Mr Box, and what am I to do while you are meeting…whomever?”  
“As I say, you will have to accompany me, but we must play a slight deception on my old friend, for your sake as well as my own”. She narrowed her eyes disapprovingly and followed me into the crowded foyer. 

Having bought tickets for ‘Voyage à Travers l'impossible’ and leaving one at the door for Reynolds, we squeezed our way down the row until we found four seats vacant. Removing my jacket I sat in the left middle seat with Elsa to my far right, leaving one vacant seat to both my right and my left. I took her hand “Can’t have you getting lost and wandering off can we?” and placed our hands on the empty seat to my right, and placed my jacket over them. In the gloom it looked as if we were unacquainted movie patrons with a jacket in the seat between us. My hope was that Joshua would not recognise Elsa in the half light and the crush. It was a risk, but I did not want Reynolds to know that I was still in Elsa’s company, he would reprimand me for…distractions. But I was not convinced that Elsa was not still hiding something, and until I had more information from Reynolds, I wasn’t letting her out of my sight, or rather, my hand.

The picture began, some tosh about a bunch of geographers who intend to travel the globe and end up on the surface of the Sun or some such nonsense, and as the huddled masses settled themselves, a small figure insinuated himself into the seat to my left.  
“What ho Lucifer” came his cheery whispered greeting “good choice this, a classic, Méliès is a genius don’t you agree?”. I mmmed in a noncommittal manner.  
“What’s the news Joshua?”  
“Eh? Oh. Yes yes. Well, it appears that the sheets that Mr Jackpot brought to you were dipped in some form of poison, something that caused a ‘paralysis of the heart’”.  
“I see”. A paralysis of the heart. My poor Charlie.  
“Would have taken a full ten minutes to take effect however, so the boffins tell me, which was why it could not have had anything to do with your young lady’s parasol”. I felt the fingers interlocked between mine twitch, reproachfully, if that were possible.  
“Did er, did my telegram get to you before you um…’ his words trailed off. Joshua was never one for the more practical side of our chosen profession.  
“Never fear Reynolds old boy, your missive reached me in the very nick of time, the lady in question is – I squeezed a delicate finger lightly – quite well I assure you”. He exhaled dramatically.  
“Good-o, good-o. The question now is, of course, who poisoned those papers of yours? The back room chappies say that it was potent stuff, scientific research grade, not something anyone could knock up. Maybe even government level, but whose? It looks like you have got yourself entangled with something serious dear boy”. Joshua looked at me over the top of spectacles he had forgotten to put on. “What have you been up to?”  
I returned his look with speechless wide-eyed…well, not innocence, but certainly ignorance. What on earth? Military grade poisons for little old me? I couldn’t imagine what I had been involved with lately that could cause such a reaction. My mind raced through my more perilous past endeavours… the Wanderlust ruby (really must give that back at some point), that business with the Lord Godalming and his, shall we say, unusual choice of company (and that’s unusual by my standards), that bloody nonsense with Boudreaux of course, but nothing that could account for such a response, I was sure. I shrugged, genuinely mystified.  
Then a name came back to me. Long shot but worth considering.  
“Verity” I hissed in his ear.  
“What what?” Joshua started, he had been momentarily absorbed in the flick, the Frenchies were now in a dirigible of some description. I looked over at Elsa watching the screen, she did not appear to be able to hear us.  
“I was er... waylaid the other evening by a fellow who was anxious that I steered clear of a Verity”. JR chuckled and shook his head at me in a paternal fashion.  
“Lucifer honestly, your midnight capers are going to be the death of you”.  
“Most probable” I mused, “except that I cannot recall a Verity amongst my recent acquaintance”. JR tutted under his breath.  
“I mean” I said with a little more fervour, “that I do not believe the gentleman was discussing my personal life. Which makes me wonder if he was alluding to my professional”.  
“Hmmmm I see. Doesn’t ring a bell with me either I’m afraid. Didn’t do you any harm did he?” The bruises on my face were still very visible.  
“Oh nothing I couldn’t handle, gave him a dislocated shoulder for his trouble” (this I whispered even lower, I doubted this kind of talk would endear me to the lady on my right).  
“Well I will get one of the clerks to cross reference for a Verity connected to any of your recent RA activities, but I wouldn't be surprised if you have met the lady and just um, forgotten her name? I believe there are a great deal of female visitors to the er...what’s the name of that place you insist on frequenting - against official advice -? The Pamplemousse Rooms was it? Papaya?” His face told me he could recall my favourite palace of pleasure perfectly well.  
“And your friendships are often” (read always) “of a transitory nature Lucifer, if you don’t mind my saying”. I sighed, hoping Elsa hadn't heard any of that last exchange.  
“Worth a thought anyway. If you hear anything, you can get me at number nine”. 

I made to move back to my central position before Reynolds could say anything further to darken my character in Elsa’s eyes, but J put his offputtingly tiny hand on my forearm to stop me. Oh yes.  
“And er, what was in those papers?” I leaned towards him slightly and lowered my voice, and as I did I felt Elsa shift slightly in her chair.  
“Ah, yes, well, it was, as we suspected, details about this Mrs Hamilton/Elsa person, that there never was any Mrs Emma Hamilton of Christmas Pie, Surrey, that the ancestral home she gave as her permanent address did not exist either, and that her valet chappie…Truman, wasn’t her valet either, nor was Truman his name”.  
“Quite a plethora of falsehoods indeed, but did the papers give any indication as to the lady’s real identity?” I turned my head ever so slightly towards my companion on the right, she was staring resolutely forward at the screen, where the explorers were now in some sort of submersible, and appearing to ignore us entirely.  
“Unfortunately not, no” replied Joshua, “all they said was that the lady was not who she claimed to be. Evidently Mr Jackpot had been making enquiries as to the lady and his source had given him evidence to pass on to you, which had been, um, tampered with”. There was a pause. “Sorry old chap” added Reynolds. I took a deep breath.  
“So, Charlie died merely to tell me that Mrs Hamilton was an imposter. He needn’t have bothered then had he. I could tell from her first visit that Mrs H was not who she claimed to be. Her English was far too perfect for her to be a native speaker for a start, we are never taught our own language to the degree that she could speak it. And she had no trace of any accent, as if she came from nowhere in the country at all. Linguistic experts can pinpoint a person to within a few miles of the place of their upbringing I believe, and yet there was no hint of any borough, town, nor county even in Mrs Hamilton’s voice”. I sensed Elsa stiffen in the chair next to me.  
“Plus, she made one elementary mistake”.  
“Oh yes?”  
“She referred to her bumbershoot”. Joshua giggled. “Oh dear me, quite the schoolboy error, yes”.  
Bumbershoot is one of those words that is always attributed as an English idiosyncrasy, but it is nothing of the sort. Only someone trying to sound English would use such a term, it was such a giveaway.  
“And to top it off, her valet was an enormous fellow, more a bodyguard than anything, he could never see to the delicacies of household tasks, and he would loiter outside the front door in a most protective, even paranoid manner. No, I was never deceived that the lady was who she said she was…but who is?” I added, squeezing Elsa’s hand gently.  
“If he had only come to me with his suspicions instead of going to…whomever, then he would still be alive. The bloody fool”. I thumped the arm-rest between Reynolds and myself with my fist, quite without thinking. The sound of the impact was stifled by the dusty cushioning, but the contact vibrated throughout the chairs on our row, luckily the great unwashed all around me were too focused on the screen to notice. Elsa noticed however, and that little line appeared between her eyebrows again.

“Did you learn anything else from this Elsa when you met with her this morning? Anything that might explain why she felt the need to disguise herself in your presence?” At this question my hand was squeezed hard.  
“No no, nothing of importance, probably just some spinster trying to add some drama to her life, give herself a more sophisticated backstory, you know the sort”.  
I had lost count of the number of clients who entered my studio requesting a portrait of themselves dressed in the garb of their grandfather, or at least, the garb their grandfather would have worn if they were a Lord of the Manor, rather than a tailor or a cobbler or some such. These portraits would then hang in the client’s homes, giving the appearance of heritage and class to those who think such things can be purchased. Appalling little counterjumpers of course, but they paid the bills.  
“Oh well, best put her out of your mind then what? Concentrate on finding out whoever tried to poison you eh?” Reynolds gave me a hard stare.  
“Yes yes of course, indeed. I will put my mind to it”.  
“I mean it Lucifer, you aren’t going to see this lady again are you? Someone with access to highly classified and dangerous substances tried to kill you, this has to be the focus of your attention. Your dear Papa, god rest his soul, would never forgive me if anything were to happen to you on my watch. You will give this your undivided attention won’t you?” He looked pleadingly at me. I put my free hand on his arm momentarily…“I promise”. 

Elsa and I sat in the theatre for a few minutes after Joshua had left, reassured and jolly once more, he bounced off with a little wave and disappeared into the darkness of the hall. Neither of us looked at each other, or spoke, but neither did either of us make a move to detangle our fingers from where they still lay hidden and interlocked beneath my jacket. Only when the pianist began to belt out the ‘shows over, bugger off’ music and the lights clicked on unceremoniously, did I, reluctantly (which surprised me also dear reader, not one for such soppiness as a rule) slide my hand away from hers and took my jacket. We left the Bioscope in silence and began to walk automatically back towards the East End, and the Grapes. 

After fully five minutes of silence, the only sound being the tap of Elsa’s umbrella on the pavement, she took a deep breath and said  
“So, someone well connected to secret and deadly weaponry is trying to kill you Mr Box”.  
“It would appear that way, yes”.  
“Aren’t you afraid?”  
“Goodness me, regular occurrence I assure you” but I will admit that it had given me pause.  
“Then you are not really a portraitist? You are some sort of…what? Vigilante? Assassin?”  
“I am a portraitist, and a jolly decent one at that, painting will always be my first love, but I have…other interests.”  
“Yes, violence, secrecy, and (she paused) a varied company, to say the least. Whatever your profession Mr Box, it seems dangerous in the extreme”.  
“My work is…never dull, but” I added hastily, “it is all completely above board I assure you.”  
“And…we are not to see each other again?” she stopped walking and turned to look at me now, her eyes searching mine. I laughed  
“Oh my dear lady whatever gave you that idea?” her eyebrows knitted again in that way I was now becoming familiar with,  
“But you said to your friend, you promised him that…” I laughed again  
“oh that, no need to pay any attention to that, the old fool knows I didn’t mean it, it’s just our little game that’s all, pay no heed, no heed at all”.  
“You…lied to him? To your friend?”  
“Well, if you want to put it like that, maybe, er, a white lie, that’s all”. Elsa folded her arms and her voice became scolding  
“You can paint it whatever colour you want, Mr Box, but it was a lie”.  
“Yes, well, just didn’t want him to worry that’s all, it was a kindness really, thinking of him entirely, he is getting on in years and I didn’t want to add to his burdens”. Her eyes narrowed and she mmmmed under her breath.  
“So, you are not leaving?”  
“Certainly not, I couldn’t leave you…at such a moment as this” I added quickly. “Not when your situation is one of such distress”. She bridled at the word distress, quite unwittingly I had given offence and she drew herself up to her full five foot five inches.  
“I am not a damsel to be rescued Mr Box, I have done quite well for myself thus far. You have no idea what I had to overcome already to keep Chin-Mae safe”.  
I bowed my head “of course, forgive me”.  
“However, if you felt it prudent I would appreciate your involvement from this point on. I believe things are about to become more dangerous as we enter the final stages of our work, and we could do with all the help we can get. And judging by the snippets of conversation I overheard in the theatre, you seem to have quite a talent for trouble”. She smiled. “Will you stay? And help us?”  
“Us? Oh the collective, of course, yes, absolutely fascinated to hear more and help in any way I can”. 

I don’t know why I said this, I had no interest whatsoever in this Chin-Mae mumbo jumbo, but I also didn’t want to say goodbye to Elsa again so soon after our re-acquaintance (the rustle of crinolines was still fresh in my mind) so there I was agreeing to help in spite of myself. As we walked back towards her rooms, Elsa threaded her arm back through mine, and although it was no longer necessary to keep her from making a break for it, I made no attempt to remove it. She chatted animatedly and I forgot for a time all about the poison, this collective we were heading back to, even Charlie slipped from my mind as we made our way slowly back to the docks in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spite of what Lucifer thinks, Méliès ‘Voyage à Travers l'impossible’ is a classic of its time, and the story of Little John Wade was a real event at Tobacco Dock.


End file.
